


Of Comings and Goings

by ThaliaClio



Series: Demons and Playmates [8]
Category: Criminal Minds, Iron Man (Movies), James Bond (Craig movies), Leverage, Ocean's Eleven (2001), Psych, Sherlock (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 6 +1 Things, Aliases, All the character tags, Almost suicide attempts, Angst, Cliched Rescue Scene, Con Artists, He met a lot of people okay?, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implication of torture, Lassie is a worrier, Lassiter and Shawn are totally buddies, M/M, Not too graphic but still, Saving lives, Still Shawn-centric, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, Withdrawal, mentions of drug use, multi-fandom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:01:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThaliaClio/pseuds/ThaliaClio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn went on a roadtrip for a few years. These are some of the lives he saved in between smoothies and sightseeing. Alternatively titled "Six Times Shawn Saved Somebody’s Life, Plus One Time They Kind Of Saved His" or "Coincidences and Choices".</p><p>We are all searching for someone whose demons play well with ours. - Unknown</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wasn't always a consulting detective, and there's a reason he has a candle that smells like Hawaii.

Sherlock Holmes did not start out as a consulting detective, as much as he prefers to claim so. Very few people have evidence to the contrary. He, in fact, began as a private investigator. The bulk of his cases were not murders, but rather infidelities and petty thefts. Boring, but better than working with his brother in the government. The world was dull and grey, but there was little else for Sherlock to do. At least when he told a woman that her husband preferred the male prostitutes on the corner he could observe interesting reactions rather than forcing himself to deal with the dullness of politics. Affairs and seven percent solution were all that could call his attention.

Sherlock saw little else to do with his life until he met a seventeen-year-old American runaway.

He was on one of his numerous infidelity cases when he met the boy. Quite honestly he first thought he was a prostitute himself. He was certainly comfortable on the streets of London after dusk and was attractive enough for the profession. One look into the boy’s face told Sherlock his assumption was _wrong, wrong, wrong_ , though.

“What are you doing here?”

A smirk. “Keeping Jimbo here company.” American. Western. Neither high nor drunk. Definitely not a prostitute. “What are you doing here?”

“Investigating.”

“If it’s about Mr. DuMorne, he only comes by on Thursdays. If it’s about the disappearances, then awesome. I could use the help. The Yard doesn’t like me much.”

Sherlock blinked stupidly. _(He hated feeling stupid.)_ He hadn’t even known there were disappearances. And he was, in fact, investigating Mr. DuMorne’s infidelity. His arm itched faintly, right in the crook of his elbow. _(Stupid, stupid, stupid.)_

The boy, because he was certainly not a man, blinked hazel eyes at him suspiciously. Sherlock found himself annoyed at the American’s tan. It was incongruous with the London fog. Sherlock did not like incongruity. Without warning a lazy smile spread across stubbled cheeks and Sherlock blinked again. He was left with the distinct feeling that the _boy_ knew infinitely more than he did. _(He hated feeling stupid.)_

“You didn’t know people were going missing, did you?” At Sherlock’s narrowed eyes the boy laughed but stopped abruptly when he noticed Sherlock’s fingers skating over the elbow of his arm.  _(Stupid, stupid, stupid.)_ “You might notice these things if you weren’t jonesing.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“ _No_. There is no _excuse_ for what you’re doing. You could be _helping_ but instead you’re wallowing.” The boy looked him over, some kind of unfamiliar emotion in his eyes. His voice was dispationate and incongrous with the flames in his eyes. Sherlock did not like incongruity. “You’re going to die alone, Mr. Holmes, with a needle in your arm.”

And all Sherlock could do was blink stupidly again.  _(He hated feeling stupid.)_ ‘Jimbo’ had gone as well as the other prostitutes. His arm still itched, but he refused to scratch it. Finally –

“I can stop whenever I so choose.”

A sharp smile, more a baring of teeth, a little too predatory to be real. Sherlock could see his own grin in the brittle edges of the expression, and he found himself mirroring it. “Prove it.” _(Stupid, stupid, stupid.)_

-

Sherlock did not like withdrawal, he found. He couldn’t _think_. Not even a little. There was only the fog and the endless sound of his mind screaming at him. _(Stupidstupidstupidstupidstupidstupid.)_

“What’s your name?” He finally asked on the second day. He neeeded to hear something, anything, other than the sound of his own blood in his ears and his own voice in his head.

“Shawn,” the stranger answered. Then he pushed Sherlock back down on the bed, heedless of the sweat on his skin and the shivers that wracked his body. He smelled tropical and tangy. “You’re almost through the worst.”

-

Sherlock liked sobriety, he found. He could _think_. More than a little. There was no fog and the screaming of his mind was now the whir of the world.

“Why did you help me?” He finally asked on the last day. He wanted to hear something, anything, to prove that his was real and he wasn't alone with the voices in his head anymore.

Shawn paused in his packing. For the first time in years, perhaps, Sherlock could see _e_ _verything_. Shawn was young, too young, and smart, too smart, and emotional, too emotional. He could see the scars on his arms and legs from a careless childhood and the beginnings of a more careless adulthood. He could see the sleeplessness in his hazel eyes. He could see the plan ticket in his pocket and the goodbye on his lips.

“Because you needed it,” Shawn answered. Then he shouldered his bag, heedless of the fraying straps and sagging fabric. “Isn’t sobriety the best?”

And if Sherlock’s heart seized in his chest and his words stuck in his throat when he watched Shawn climb into a cab with a phone number and a smile then, well, he blamed it on the aftereffects of withdrawal. And if Sherlock always has a candle that smells like Hawaii ready to light on the bad days to help him through the worst then, well, nobody had to know.


	2. James Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second life Shawn saves in England. Airports are exciting.

James had only been a 00 for a week and already he could understand why there was such a high turnover rate.

He was even done with the bloody mission. He’d even made it to the airport in London with scarcely a bruise. Only now there was an arsehole with a gun shouting about voices and the end of the world. And he had a bullet hole in his leg. This was not in his job description. Well, technically it was, but _this_ wasn't even a mission. He needed a drink.

“Calm down, dude.” A man stood up amongst the cowering civilians (and one steadily bleeding secret agent).  He kept his hands low and open, crouching just a little bit, as he shuffled towards James and his blood pool. He was too young to be a man, really, but too old and too bold to be a boy. There was a sagging bag on his shoulder, strap old and fraying.

The arsehole swung around to face the man, gun hand shaking and eyes wild, but didn’t shoot. “The fuck are you? Are you one of _them_?”

James could swear the man was laughing. He kept moving. “No, but I know who _they_ are. Let me help you.”

“H-how?” The arsehole’s finger was still on the trigger. This man was a bloody _idiot_. _Both_ of them. He really needed a drink.

The man was three feet away from the arsehole. “C’mere. I can’t say it loud, _they_ might hear me.” He had one hand in front of his mouth as though to shield his words from view, so obviously playing along it was painful for James to watch.

The arsehole looked so delighted that somebody believed him, he actually lowered his hand and shuffled closer to the man. _Both_ of them were idiots. The man was definitely holding back laughter. James had been shoot by a delusional, bloody idiot. This was just embarrassing. He really, really needed a drink.

James blinked and suddenly the arsehole was on the ground, and the man had the gun. Quickly and efficiently, the man dismantled the gun, palming the bullets and throwing the pieces on the ground. The crowd was dumbfounded. So was James. _Embarrassing_. Where was that scotch?

“Alright, secret agent man,” the man was crouched in front of James now. Maybe James had lost more blood than he thought if he kept losing track of people and time everytime he closed his eyes.

James blinked, mind blank at the nickname, but the man’s eyes were too old for his face and too smart for his pretty boy smile. James swallowed and kept his hands on his leg; he was maybe a little bit dizzy right now.

Those too smart eyes raked over James, cataloguing every blood drop and every bruise and every tear, and somehow James felt safer under that gaze than he ever had under the stare of a doctor. Warm hands replaced his own, and James flinched as the pressure increased. Pain stabbed up his thigh. His vision went spotty.

“You’ll be fine,” the man finally said, American accent heavy in James’s ears but not unpleasant. “It missed anything vital. You're bleeding heavily, though. Is your agency on the way?”

James blinked again, still feeling slow and still craving that drink.

“Probably.”

They would want to be involved, at the very least, considering on of their own had been shot. They would want to know how a man with a gun had gotten past security and the only person injured had been an MI6 00 agent. So did James.

“Good. I’ll keep pressure until they get here.”

His people came, brought their own ambulance rather than sending him with the police. They took the stranger with them, too. James didn’t protest when he climbed in the ambulance with him, not asking or requesting or demanding, but simply coming along.

Four hours, one surgery, and one debriefing later, and James was reclined in a hospital bed with the only chair in the room occupied by an American stranger with too smart eyes and no self-preservation instincts.

They sat in silence for a moment and then --

“Your parents seriously named you James when your last name was already Bond? And then you joined MI6? And not only became a 00, but 007? You’re shitting me.”

Maybe James was a little high on morphine, but he wasn’t surprised by the stranger’s intimate knowledge of his position. He felt distinctly as though he were being laughed at.

 “Unfortunately, no. Gods and bureaucrats apparently have a sense of humor.”

The stranger smiled, and James thought _yes, definitely laughing at me._ He smiled back.

“Who are you?” He asked after a moment.

“Shawn,” the stranger answered.

“Well, thank you, Shawn,” James said. For a minute there was no sound but the monitors at his bedside. Then – “Might I ask who SHIELD is, exactly?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the implication here is that the James Bond franchise still exists and this James's parents just watched too many spy movies (and so did he, maybe).


	3. Criminal Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn is perfect in all the wrong ways. He shouldn't be here, but he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, this chapter is pretty dark.

CRIMINAL MINDS

Six college boys in one month and the UNSUB was escalating. All of the victims had had parents in law enforcement in some way or another. All of them were determined not to follow in their parents’ footsteps. All of them were young, attractive men with bright futures.

Shawn Spencer was perfect.

He was a friend of Reid’s. They’d met during Reid’s last year at the Academy, only two years ago. The kid had snuck into a lecture at Quantico because “girl – or guy – with a gun? _Yes_ ” and had somehow befriended the resident genius despite their apparent lack of similarities.

The kid fit the victimology. Gideon knew it. Hotchner knew it. Reid knew it. Morgan knew it. Everyone fucking knew it. Putting him out there – a civilian – felt wrong, even if he volunteered. 

He kept telling them all not to worry, he knew what he was doing, he knew the risks. He knew they had to stop him. But Morgan looked at him and saw a 19 year old kid with too much to prove. He could see the fire in his eyes, the defiance in his walk. There were razor blades in the boy’s smile.

But Spencer had stopped to see Reid on his road trip, somehow convincing someone to let him into the bullpen to surprise his friend. He’d seen the files on the board. He volunteered.

Still, all Morgan could think was _he’sbaithe’sbaithe’sbait._

One day after the undercover op began the kid went missing, and all Morgan could think was _shitshitshit_.

Reid was frantic. It was the most emotion any of the team had ever seen their youngest member. Logic meant nothing to him when his friend was _missing_ and _in the hands of a psychopath_. Statistics only bred more worry in the team's youngest member. Even Garcia faced Reid’s hurricane of fear and worry.

Three days later they found out that there was a basement belonging to retired police Sergeant Marcus Davids, and all Morgan could think was _it’stoolateit’stoolateit’stoolate._

His son was in college, they found, and looked eerily similar to the victims _(to Shawn)_. He had cut off all ties with his father after he found out that Davids had cheated on his mother. That had been the stressor.

The house was normal from the outside. It even had a white picket fence. The pale colored siding was painted red and blue from police lights. Hotch and Gideon both tried the megaphone, trying to get Davids to come out without a fight. Five minutes with no response, and the team moved in with SWAT. Morgan thought he could see Reid mouthing _please_ over and over again. 

Three days and ten minutes later he found the kid with blood on his cheeks and bruises on his hips and a smile on his lips, and all Morgan could think was _notagainnotagainnotagain._

Morgan walked into the room and saw him, hands clenched on the arms of a bloody chair, and froze. The kid’s teeth were bloodstained, red sinking in the spaces between, and his shirt was gone. His torso was black and blue and red and he just kept _smiling._ Morgan didn’t even see the UNSUB before he was hit from behind. He went down hard, gun flying out of his grip. He looked up and the only thing he noticed was the smell of blood and stale beer and saw a knife in a meaty hand and waited to die and then _bang_. The UNSUB went down, leaving Morgan on the floor with his heart in his throat and Shawn on his feet with a gun in his hand.

Shawn went for medical care and was interviewed by Gideon for evidence. He never stopped smiling, razor blades cutting his lips and cheeks. Morgan could swear that there was still red in the spaces between his teeth. There was no pain in his eyes; they were just burning, burning. He passed the requested psych eval with flying colors.

Five days later the kid disappeared with stitches in his head and a phone number in his pocket, and all Morgan could think was _runfastrunfastrunfast._

Reid told them Shawn had left them a pineapple as a goodbye present. Everyone smiled but it didn’t reach their eyes. Morgan remembered the fire in his eyes and the razor blades in his smile. Shawn was burning and bleeding and still running, and Morgan wondered how much longer he could last.

In the silence that followed Gideon said that Shawn had saved a lot of lives. Morgan said _he saved mine,_ but all he wanted to ask was _isitworthit?_


	4. Ocean's 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn steals four million dollars. Technically. Danny and Rusty get drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even if you haven't seen Ocean's 11 (which you totally should. like, now.), this chapter should still make sense. It takes place before the movie.

Danny Ocean had it all. Money, charm, friends, a wife. Still, he lived for the thrill of a good con, that rush of adrenaline from the perfect heist. Rusty Ryan had everything but the wife – he was Danny a decade ago.

Vegas was Danny’s favorite town. Rusty liked Atlantic City better. The two of them went worldwide, of course, but they would always come back to these two towns. They were as close to home as anything ever got. The lights, the smells, the sounds, the _thrill_. They met the kid during one of the Vegas vacations.

He was too young to be in the casino but too charismatic for the guards to throw out. Danny was drinking bourbon and watching Rusty lose at Blackjack while Rusty tried to flirt (unsuccessfully) with one of the waitresses.

The kid stumbled up to the table, movements drunk-sloppy and relaxed, collapsing into a chair. Danny didn’t put him over twenty. He blinked up at the waitress, hazel eyes and messy hair and leather jacket immediately seizing her attention away from Rusty and his steadily decreasing funds.

Rusty looked incredulously at Danny. Danny smirked into his glass and shrugged.

Thirty minutes later and Rusty was broke and the kid was rich. And drunk. And friendly. Danny and Rusty were both caught in his orbit, drawn in by laughter and excitement and jokes, and now they were drunk too.

By then Danny knew the kid’s name was Shawn and Shawn knew their names and everything had the pleasant haze of alcohol.

Two hours later and Shawn was thirty grand richer. They were up and stumbling to their hotel rooms, arms slung over each other’s shoulders half in camaraderie, half in an effort to stay upright.

“Mm,” Rusty hummed, squinting at Shawn in the bright lights of the elevator. “I like you. I like ‘im, Danny. He should help us out next time.”

Danny laughed and slapped Rusty’s back. “You a liar, kid?”

The kid smiled, and, if Danny were sober, he would have seen the razor blades in his teeth and the shards of glass in his eyes. But he wasn’t sober, and he didn’t. Shawn laughed. “The very best.”

“ ‘n I got a job for you,” Danny was still laughing when the elevator pinged open. He and Rusty stumbled out, leaving Shawn slumped against the doorway. “Find’ me in th’ mornin’. We’ll talk.”

Shawn didn’t answer as the doors slid shut, but Danny didn’t notice.

Nine hours later and Danny was awake and hungover and very much in need of a nice, greasy breakfast with a Bloody Mary on the side. _Room Service._

_Ring._

_Ring._

_Ring._

_“Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?”_

“Uh, yeah. Can I get the breakfast platter with a Bloody Mary on the side?” He heard Rusty groan from the couch in the next room. “Make that two of both.”

_“Of course, sir. Will you be charging that to the same card you used to check in?”_

“Yeah, sure.” It was Danny’s only personal credit card. He used it for things like this – vacations between jobs.

_“One moment, please… Tap. Tap. Tap. I’m sorry, sir, but your card is being declined. In fact, I must insist that you checkout this afternoon. Your payments are not valid.”_

The rest of the conversation passed in a blur. Danny knew, he _knew_ there had been upwards of four million in the account connected to the card just last night.

“RUSTY!”

 _Thump._ “WHAT?”

Danny got up and stumbled into the common area, ignoring the throbbing in his head. Rusty glared at him from his spot on the floor, hair askew and suit wrinkled. Any other day and Danny would have mocked his normally sauve partner endlessly for the puddle of drool he saw on the couch. But not today.

“What?”

“We got a problem.”

Ten minutes later and the credit card in question was nowhere to be found.

Danny was good at what he did. Rusty was, too. They were con-men and thieves and damn good ones. But this kid, barely even legal, was better. He’d walked away with four million and a laugh, and they hadn’t even noticed until Danny tried to order room service.

“Fuck,” Rusty finally said. They were both staring at the couch, staring dumbly at their empty wallets on the coffee table. “That fucking kid.”

And Danny could just barely remember the stumble up to the elevator, how close the three of them had been to one another. Arms over each other's shoulders, falling into each other's chests, breathing in the same alcohol laden air. He wouldn't have noticed if his shoe was missing, let alone one tiny credit card.

“Yeah.”

_Ring._

_Ring._

_Ring._

Danny glanced at Rusty before grabbing his phone and flipping it open. Unknown.

_“In my defense, I didn’t steal it.”_

“You motherfucker.” Danny pressed speaker and set the phone down. “You took our credit cards and spent everything in one night without our permission. That’s the definition of stealing.” And fuck if Danny couldn’t see the irony in the situation.

Danny flopped down onto the couch, rubbing at his face. Rusty stayed on the floor, gaping at the phone.

_“Only technically. I didn’t spend it on **me**.”_

“Wait, what?” Rusty finally managed to speak past his flapping mouth.

 _“You guys had a hit out on you. You know, Godfather-style. I made it go away. (giggle). I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.”_ Shawn deepened his voice, slurring his words just a little, and _fuck_ but he really was just a kid. A kid who had stolen four million dollars to save his (their) lives. _  
_

“Wait, _what?_ ”

_“Do you guys just repeat each other? Is that a thing? Look, just check into the Black Widow. She took a contract on you guys. I paid her more than the other guy.”_

“How did you even know about it?” Because Danny certainly hadn't, and, based on the rapid blinking, neither had Rusty.

_“I pay attention. So… uh, yeah. Sorry you guys are broke. Try not to get killed.”_

“Thanks,” Rusty said quickly, voice blank.

_Click._

“Did a drunk college kid just save our lives?” Danny asked emotionlessly.

“I don’t think he was just a drunk college kid. But yeah.”

“Drink?”

“A lot of them. All of them.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review and let me know what you guys think, pretty please. I love the feedback.


	5. Leverage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chances are astronomical, but Shawn's always been lucky. Fun things happen in Russia.

Nate met him on a gig. He helped the insurance inspector find a long lost Monet and then disappeared. He said his name was Pavel.

Hardison never met him, but saw his coding on the FBI website, programming the homepage to be covered in sprinklers and clowns on April 1st. He laughed for an hour and then tracked the guy down. They Skyped a few times. He said his name was Leonard.

Parker met him in London in a museum when she was casing the place. He warned her about the updated systems and saved her several decades in an English prison. He said his name was Scott.

Sophie met him in Las Vegas. He had her pegged in less than a minute but instead of turning her in helped her get an extra fifty thousand out of her mark. He said his name was Christopher.

Eliot met him in Saudi Arabia somewhere no civilian had a right to be. Elliot never says what he did, but smiles and says he was a good guy, which is more than Elliot ever really says about anything. He said his name was James.

It was a year after the team formed before they realized they’d all been talking about the same man. (Everyone talked about their old lives at some point, even if it was just comparing contacts and reconnecting with old allies for the sake of a job). It was just another con, another fat cat feeding off the average citizen. It was supposed to be easy, a vacation in Russia. It wasn’t.

“NATE!” Eliot yelled, still crouched behind a hall as bullets pinged by. “We’ve been made! Get ‘em out of there!”

It had been a party. They were pretending to be buyers and had been taken to the mansion basement to make the purchase. Somehow things had gone wrong. He remembered Sophie laughing and twirling her hair. Then blinking. Then bullets, gunpowder, screaming.

Eliot didn’t know what had gone wrong, when things had gone sideways. One moment he was pretending to be Sophie’s bodyguard, the next guns had been drawn and bullets were flying. Eventually there was a break in the firing, and Eliot grabbed Sophie’s arm, propelling her ahead of him and out of the basement. They both ran, sprinting into the lush yard. The other men started firing again just as they got out the door. Eliot felt one catch on the edge of his suit jacket.

And then there was a motorcycle, peeling out across the long driveway and swinging a stop, gravel spraying. The driver was male, slender and in a black suit with a black helmet.

“Get on!” The voice was familiar, if muffled, but Eliot didn’t have the time to identify it. Didn't have time to question the all too convient timing.

He pushed Sophie on and climbed after her, squeezing much too closely and still hanging off. The motorcycle peeled out again, and Eliot felt himself almost fall off, but he just squeezed tighter, just barely hanging on. The bullets were close enough to move Eliot’s hair, to smell the metal.

And then they were gone, the sounds of gunfire fading away. Eliot hoped the other guys didn't have convient and unexpected getaway drivers.

_“Eliot! Eliot!”_

Suddenly Eliot realized that Nate had been screaming at him for a while.

“Yeah,” he had to scream against the wind, his face pressed to Sophie’s back. The fabric of her dress caught against his stubble. “We’re alive.”

_“What the fuck happened?”_

“I dunno. The deal went sideways. We’ll meet you at the drop point. Forewarning, though – we got a friend.”

It was radio silence from there, but Eliot heard Sophie scream the address to the driver.

Two minutes later and they were swinging to a stop outside an abandoned warehouse that had been serving as their base, cliché as it was.

Nate and Parker and Hardison were all standing outside, guns in hand. It was both heartwarming and alarming, not that Elliot would admit to either emotion. Elliot and Sophie clamored off awkwardly, stepping back to the group. The driver swung his leg over much more smoothly, putting the bike between himself and the crew.

“So,” Nate began, unflappable as always. “You saved their lives. Thank you.” The stranger didn’t react, really, but Eliot saw his fingers _taptaptap_ ing against his pant leg. “But who are you exactly.” It wasn’t a question, and Nate’s hand stayed on the trigger.

The hand came up when the stranger raised his arms, but fell again when he just went for his helmet. Eliot stayed tensed beside Nate.

And then the helmet was off and the gun dropped along with everyone’s mouth.

“ _James_ _?"_

" _Scott?"_

_"Leonard?"_

_"Pavel?"_

" _Chis?_ ” 

Everyone paused. The man Eliot knew as James smiled, bright and amused, and _goddamn_ was Eliot happy to see him. Confused. But happy.

“You know him too?” They all asked at once, turning to face one another simultaneously. Then they all turned to face Not James simultaneously.

Not James frowned and pointed at them. "That's creepy. Stop that."

Eliot recovered first. "James isn't your name. Or Leonard. Or Pat - "

"-Pavel," Not James interrupted.

" _Pat_ or whatever the fuck else you've told us."

He blinked at them, hazel eyes still amused, smiling again, cocksure as usual. "I thought that was obvious."

Nate sighed, rubbing at his face with his hand. The gun was in the pocket of his coat. "Who are you, exactly?"

"Shawn Spencer," he replied, bowing with a flourish. "Savior extraordinaire."

Half an hour and half a bottle of bourbon later and at least one of the stories had come out inside the warehouse. Shawn was at the party because he knew a guy who knew a guy and _hey, Russian models_! He had seen them there, and had, for reasons unknown (read: Shawn said he had his ways and then smiled as he took a shot when asked), immediately known they were a team and pulling a job. He had also noticed that it would go sideways, but had had no way of letting anyone know in time. Hence the clichéd motorcycle rescue.

“So – completely by coincidence – you meet all of us before we meet each other. And then – completely by coincidence – you happen to show up in Russia at the exact same time as us. And then – _completely by coincidence_ – you come to the exact same party and see us at the exact right moment to save our lives.” Nate shook his head.

Shawn rolled his glass between his fingers as he tilted his chair back dangerously far on two legs. “Yup,” he said, popping the ‘p’. You’d be surprised by who I know.”

“The chances are literally astronomical, man,” Hardison added.

“How’d you recognize him anyway?” Parker asked. “I thought he just managed to hack a site before you.”

“I did,” Shawn answered. “But he was so jealous of my talents that he tracked me down on the forums. We Skyped a few times. Gave him a few pointers.”

“Gave _each other_ a few pointers,” Hardison said, a little childishly. “Get it right, man.”

And Eliot had just shaken his head and taken another shot because _how was this his life_ and _he wouldn’t trade it for anything_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points to whoever can tell me where Shawn got his aliases from!


	6. Iron Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony needs a lot of help sometimes. Shawn knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of suicidal intentions.

That night at the bar, the night Tony was so drunk he couldn’t see straight, the night that Shawn “stole” his keys – Tony would have crashed. Driving around in the desert, going over a hundred, drunk and lonely, he would have let go of the wheel and pressed down on the pedal.

_"That night? The night at the bar?"_

_Shawn hums.  
_

_"I was trying to drink myself to death. Crash and burn."  
_

_"I know."  
_

_And the world is quiet except for Spock telling Dr. McCoy he is illogical.  
_

_

“And what about you, Mr. Stark? Are you happy?”

And Tony was still a little drunk from the night before, sunglasses on and hair disheveled, avoiding a convention. There was a bottle of pills upstairs in his bag.

“I’m a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist – what do you think?”

_Give me a reason, any reason._

His eyes were hazel, and he was so, so young. But his eyes, his eyes were old. There was broken glass in those eyes.

“I think that you should go home and marathon all three _Robocop_ s and eat a dozen bags of salted popcorn with chocolate chips and then go on a run and then shower and then take a nap.”

And Tony snorts and walks away. He won’t see the man again (he didn’t ask for a name).

But then it’s two am and he’s staring at the bottle of pills and there’s a knocking at his door. He closes the flap of his bag and answers, drunker than he should be but not as drunk as he wants to be.

The man from the self-help seminar is there. He’s still wearing his leather jacket and boots, but now he has bags of popcorn in his hand and a stack of movies under his arm.

It’s the first time Tony falls asleep watching movies with Shawn. They wake up and go for a slow run around the town and it’s nice and it’s quiet and Tony flushes the pills when he gets home.

_“That night? The first night?”_

_Shawn hums._

_“I had Xanax in my bag. And Percocets.”_

_“I know.”_

_And the world is quiet again expect for Officer Murphy evenly warning an OCP exec._

_

Shawn helped Rhodey find Tony. There’s a whole lot of desert, and Shawn helped narrow down the search area by hypothesizing with JARVIS on the probable location of the terrorist cell. Rhodey and the army had been over two hundred miles in the wrong direction. Had Tony spent any longer wandering the desert, he would have died from dehydration or hyperthermia or infection or any combination of the three.

_“That day? The day you found me?”_

_Shawn hums._

_“I almost gave up. Stopped walking.”_

_“I know.”_

_And the world is quiet except for the sound of helicopter blades from the TV screen._

_

Shawn discovers lithium dioxide before SHIELD. He was there administering it to Tony the first time he met _Natalie_.

“Pepper! Love the new assistant. Haven’t seen you in months. CEO-ship suits you. Have you been getting my Christmas cards?”

Pepper blinks but recovers remarkably quickly. “It’s May. But yes. Every month. What are you doing here?”

He ignors her, palming the syringe and turning to _Natalie_ , who looks far too unflustered even to Pepper’s eyes.

“Emanuelle! Lovely to meet you. The name’s Winchester. Jonathon Winchester. Tell Nicky I said hello.”

And then Shawn breezes breezed out the doors, leaving one laughing and two gaping. The only one who hadn’t been surprised was Tony. Of course _Natalie_ had been _Natasha_ and Fury was called and everything came out without the destruction of Tony’s home and the betrayal of Rhodey.

_“The afternoon? The afternoon with ‘Natalie’?”_

_Shawn hums._

_“I was going to fight Rhodey. Let him win.”_

_“I know.”_

_And the world is quiet except for the sound of Ethan Hunt ripping off his mask._

_

After Manhattan, after the wormhole, Tony does’t deal well. He doesn’t sleep. He barely eats. He starts drinking again. He builds suit after suit after suit after suit. He can see space and aliens and blood and stars and he's so _weak_.

Shawn stops him after two months. Rather than monthly visits, it becomes weekly drives to Malibu and nightly Skype calls. He never hides anything from Tony, never forces him to do anything or to stop anything. He's just _there_. They marathon all three _Robocop_ s and all the extended editions of the _Lord of the Rings_ and watch the entirety of the _Star Trek_ (the original and the reboot with Chris Pine because _damn_ but his eyes are blue). They go cliff diving into waters way too cold to be swimming in. They run 5ks around the mansion at midnight. They make cocktails without any booze because Shawn hates the burn.

_“After? After Manhattan?”_

_Shawn hums._

_“I wished I had stayed in space. Died out there.”_

_“I know.”_

_And the world is quiet except for Mel Gibson yelling about freedom._

___

The Mandarin takes Shawn. He had just finished a case and was driving up to Malibu to see Tony again. Tony figures out how Killian knew about Shawn when he moves to New York. There had been a picture of the two of them once a few years ago in a tabloid, though you couldn’t see Shawn’s face. Killian had seen Shawn again when he had come to present Extremis to Pepper (Shawn had been Skyping her, JARVIS, and Tony about a case) and had put two and two together. Shawn gets injected with Extremis, nearly dies. Tony almost dies on the ship, thinking Shawn had died because he just couldn't hold on tight enough. But he rises from the flames – literally – and saves Tony.

_“That night? On the boat?”_

_Shawn hums._

_“I thought you were dead. Was going to let Killian kill me.”_

_“I know.”_

_And the world is quiet except for Gimli telling Legolas that it only counts as one._


	7. And Plus One (Kind Of)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gus has an idea (but it's actually Lassiter's). Shawn does not own that many cars. There is a group hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's the end! I want to thank you guys for sticking with me through this one. It's a little bit lighter than the other chapters have been.

So Spencer was back again. Kind of.

Lassiter has always been tough on Spencer, insulting him, demanding he be serious, but this is just disconcerting. He doesn’t _play_ anymore. Instead of witty comebacks and vague eighties references, it’s biting sarcasm and taunts. Spencer just _says_ things now. Financial information, vacation plans, computerized evidence that even the IT guys couldn’t find after a week of _sorry sir, there’s a firewall_ and _this password is uncrackable_. Lassiter has never been so close to believing the man really is a psychic.

O’Hara looks at him, blue eyes cautious and worried, little lines on her forehead that look so very out of place. Those belong on men like him, men with a failed marriage and a slight alcohol problem. Not on women like her, women who have their whole life ahead of them and still bring in pink cupcakes for birthdays. Her eyes flick over to Spencer sitting hunched on the perp bench, head in his hands and fingers rubbing his temples. His hair is unstyled and his face is haggard. Lassiter can see his nails have been bitten to the quick.

O’Hara looks back to him, forehead still wrinkled, and he shrugs back, but can’t keep the frown off his own face. He sees it. Spencer might as well have a brand across his forehead. Not that Lassiter can read the words because _Spencer hasn’t said a fucking word._

He disappeared for two weeks. Then he came back with a classified file and no explanation. Then he left again. And now he was back again and still no explanation.

Spencer wasn’t talking, and it is terrifying. Spencer always _always_ talks. About nothing. About everything. But not now, not this time.

He just picks up file after file, solving case after case within hours after seeing the papers with barely a _the spirits told me_ to keep up the ruse. Their clearance rate hasn’t been this high in, well, ever.

Spencer looks up at him, and Lassiter finds he can’t look away. Spencer has always had a gravitational pull, a sort of magnetism that Lassiter envied. Now his eyes are cold and calculating and so very tired and it’s more like a black hole than the sun. The whites are shot through with red veins, and if Lassiter didn’t know better he would swear than there are little circuit lines creeping in the pupils.

Spencer’s lip quirks up on one side, and Lassiter fights a flinch. There’s no amusement in that smile, not really. Exhaustion, yes. Desperation, maybe. But no humor. Finally Spencer blinks and the spell is broken and Lassiter can just see Spencer waltzing through the bullpen, belting out showtunes and he almost smiles. But then Spencer opens his eyes and all Lassiter sees is two days of no sleep and a broken smile.

The Chief calls Spencer’s name, and he gets up and goes. Quietly, silently. It reminds Lassiter of a shadow or a ghost. He watches the space where Spencer was for a moment before he shakes his head and turns back to his paperwork. It doesn’t help him to forget about Spencer’s broken smile or sleepless eyes, though, because of course it’s another case the ‘psychic’ has solved.

He doesn’t look up until he feels a shadow in front of him, and even then he ignores it until Guster clears his throat.

“Guster.”

Guster throws himself into the chair in front of Lassiter’s desk (Shawn’s chair that he hasn’t moved for a month even when Shawn wasn’t there to occupy it and refused to now that he was here). “We need to talk about Shawn.”

Lassiter finally puts down his pen and scrubs at his face. “And what do you want me to do? Spencer and I – we aren’t friends.” Guster gives him a baleful look, and Lassiter winces. Okay, yes, so they were friends, in the oddest, least functional, most competitive sense of the word. “Fine. But what am I supposed to do? You’re his _best_ friend.”

And now it’s Guster’s turn to rub at his face. “I was hoping you had some idea.”

“We could always have an intervention.” Lassiter means it sarcastically, but Guster’s face lights up.

“That’s it! Later, man.” And then he’s gone. The way he was bouncing was eerily reminiscent of pre-disappearance Spencer.

_

Two days later and Spencer is still on the perp bench. His eyes are more red than white at this point, and the only reason his hair is tousled is because he keeps running his hands through it. He’s been wearing the same MIT sweatpants for three days (Lassiter wonders where he got them from. If he went to college after all.) He’s dozing into a file. There’s been no change. Guster’s plan must have failed after all, and Lassiter finds himself inordinately angry with the man. He was supposed to _fix this_.

He’s just broken his third pen in the past hour when two men walk in. Lassiter narrows his eyes as he takes them both in, trigger finger itching and hackles rising at the sense of arrogance and disdain that they bring in with them. One is too thin for his height with a mop of slick black curls on his head, black trench coat woefully out of place in the warm weather but suiting him all the same. The other is tall as well, but well built, slick blonde hair and tan at odds with his companion. They both ignore the front desk sergeant, striding in confidently.

Lassiter rises to meet them, standing firmly in their path with his arms crossed and gun holsters fully in view. The blonde one flicks icy blue eyes up and down Lassiter’s form, smirking just little (Lassiter beats back his self-consciousness with a stick as he compares the Armani suit with his own Men’s Warehouse attire). The black haired one does the same, but scowls instead, and Lassiter is chilled by his eyes as well.

“Can I help you?”

The black haired one is staring at his phone now and waves his hand at the blonde one who just quirks up an eyebrow.

“Yes, actually. We were looking for Shawn Spencer.”

Lassiter blinks at the man’s accent. Very... _Downton Abbey_ (And he blamed his ex for that reference because he didn't like the show at all. Not one bit.).

“Has Spencer pissed off Interpool or something?”

The black haired one scoffs. “No. We’re friends of his. Obviously.”

Lassiter’s hackles rise, and he’s just beginning to work up a rant when –

“James? Sherlock?”

And there’s Spencer, standing just beside them, looking more awake than he has in days, if only because there’s _emotion_ in his face.

The two men turn (simultaneously. It maybe freaks Lassiter out. Just a little.) to face their _friend_ , and now the four men are standing in some kind of smooshed square .

“What are you doing here?” And just as Lassiter’s preparing to escort them men from the building because _are those tears?_ Spencer pulls both of them into a hug, burying his face in between them. Both men go wire tight, but quickly relax and return the embrace. Lassiter hears a mumbling that sounds suspiciously like “ _Fuck_. I missed you guys.” but could have just as easily been “ _Ducks_ are pissed in blue ties.” Lassiter went with the first (though the second reminded him of Spencer having a vision and goddammit he maybe missed those).

Lassiter doesn’t get the chance to recover because he blinks and suddenly the three men are gone, station door banging shut behind them.

“What in the name of God just happened?”

__

Lassiter gives them one day (20 hours, but close enough). Spencer hasn’t been back to the station in that time period. With the disappearance (kidnapping) fresh in his mind, Lassiter’s chest aches and his belly twinges every time he looks at the empty perp bench that had become Spencer’s new home. Only Gus’s insistence that everything was fine kept him away.

Only now Lassiter is standing in front of Spencer’s apartment (that it’s a Laundromat does not actually surprise him). There’s far too many cars parked outside looking far too expensive, especially compared to the worn down building and Spencer’s little motorcycle.

He inhales once and then hammers out a classic shave-and-a-haircut onto Spencer’s door, exhaling a little with each knock.  Half a second after the last beat the door is yanked out, Lassiter’s fist still in the air.

The man isn’t particularly tall, but Lassiter feels as though he’s looking up anyway. His brown hair is too long and currently pulled into a French braid, which does nothing to dispel the man’s air of violence and self-assuredness. He was smiling around a beer bottle when he opened the door, but the bottle falls to his side and his lips fall into a frown as he takes in Lassiter.

“Who’re you?” Lassiter is struck by the man’s southern accent. Wonders if Spencer had any friends without an accent (aside from Guster (aside from him)).

“Head Detective Carlton Lassiter of the Santa Barbara Police Department,” he answers reflexively.

The frown softens and deepens at the same time, but the door isn’t slammed shut, so he takes it as a good sign.

“Figured you’d be shorter.” The man takes a swig of his beer.

Lassiter blinks. The man knows him by name, but not by face. Spencer?

“I’m here to –“ Lassiter cuts himself off. He sounds official and authoritative to his own ears. He’s here as a friend. Not as a cop. “Is Sp-Shawn home?”

An eyebrow goes up. Suddenly there’s another face at the man’s shoulder. This man is Photoshop attractive with a conman’s smile and a glass of something in his hand.

“So the detective did show up.” The man breaks the syllables in detective up, chopping the word like firewood. “I was betting on an even 24 hours. Shawn -- he was right, though. As per usual. You’re _spontaneous_ , ain’t chu, detective?”

The way the man’s words and syllables slur together just a touch grate on Lassiter’s nerves. So do the words themselves.

“Lassie?” And suddenly Shawn’s standing behind the two men.

He looks better. Still tired, but there’s a softness around his eyes and he doesn’t look so burnt. It’s the kind of tired from a long, pleasant day where you look forward to falling asleep next to a warm body under warm sheets. Lassiter doesn’t think he’s ever seen that look on Spencer.

“What are you doing here? Is everything okay?” The edges are hardening again as worry creeps into his voice.

“No,” Lassiter says quickly, a little desperately. He can’t look at any more broken glass without cutting himself on it. “Everything’s fine. I just, uh. I wanted to see if you were alright.”

The man with the beer snorts, and the conman arches an eyebrow. Shawn smiles a little bit, softening again. He doesn’t seem surprised by the concern, and Lassiter wonders if Shawn knows him better than he knows himself (not for the first time).

“Come in,” Shawn says instead of responding to his comment.

The two men at the door step back just enough for Lassiter to squeeze inside, but he does have to squeeze, shoulder brushing up against the man with the beer. The little building is more crowded than Lassiter had expected. He counts over a dozen women and men crowded onto two dilapidated couches and even the counter, not including Shawn and himself.There's a familiarity to the bald black man and skinny white kid in the corner that he can't place until he sees Aaron Hotchner next to them.  _The entire fucking BAU is here._ He can see the two people from the station standing in front of the TV, overcoat and suit jacket eschewed. They’re glaring at him.

“Having a party?” The words are harsher than Lassiter intended, but he’s so very confused.

“Or something.” The voice is familiar enough that Lassiter freezes.

Tony Motherfucking Stark is walking out of the kitchen, bowl of yellow fruit in hand. He’s wearing jeans and a shirt and there’s stubble on his face and he could just be any tourist but he’s _not_ and Lassiter suddenly wonders who all these people are and how the fuck Shawn knows them.

Shawn isn’t looking at him, and so misses his mild panic attack. Instead he’s turned and draped himself over Stark, way too closely to be merely friendly. Lassiter thinks about that tired smile and warm sheets again.

“Uhm,” Lassiter says before he can think the better of it.

The room is completely quiet and all eyes are on him, even Shawn’s now.

“Oh! I should probably introduce you to everyone.” Stark has his arm around Shawn’s hips and Shawn is plastered against his side. “Lassie, these are people who owe me their lives. People who owe me their lives, this is Lassie. Who also owes me his life, come to think of it.”

And now Shawn is looking at him and so is everyone else, and it hits Lassiter like a bullet on his Kevlar.

“This a fucking intervention, isn’t it?”

And Stark is _blushing_ – Tony _Motherfucking_ Stark is _blushing_ – and a few of the other people are looking away, and Beer Guy hides a smile in his bottle while the conman doesn’t even bother. Shawn is gaping at everyone.

“ _Seriously?_ ”

And Lassiter can’t help but smile. Spencer is so rarely _surprised_ – especially lately. There’s a little bit of anger in his eyes, muscles just beginning to tense and lungs inhaling for a truly spectacular rant, but then Stark – Tony _Motherfucking_ Stark – pulls Shawn in for a hug, burying his face in Shawn’s hair (which still isn’t gelled) and he just deflates. His shoulders start shaking and _Oh shit he’s crying_ but then Lassiter can hear muffled laughter.

Shawn tilts his head just a little bit and shouts, “GROUP HUG. ALL OF YOU. NOW. THIS IS MY INTERVENTION AND I WANT A HUG.”

And then everyone – even the Brits from the station and the curly haired man with a glass of Scotch that Lassiter _knows_ isn’t his first – make their way to Shawn and Stark, managing to look casual while practically running.

And Lassiter knows that this isn’t his moment, that these aren’t his people, and he turns back to the door, ignoring the twist in his gut. And he knows he shouldn’t look back, shoulder turn around, but he does. And he can just barely see Shawn’s face.

He’s smiling, the most honest expression Lassiter has ever seen on the man’s face. He mouths _thank you_ , and this time when Lassiter turns to go, he feels warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points if you can tell me who everyone is based off of Lassiter's descriptions!
> 
> I think I'm going to hold off on the series here for a while. I'm actual working on a fem!Shawn story right now, so check back in in a few weeks, and it'll probably be up.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you thought. :)


End file.
